


Beneath the mistletoe

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Foreplay, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin and his queen have a private celebration for Yule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath the mistletoe

Reluctantly, she rose from the warm water and reached for a towel to dry herself, mindful of the lateness of the hour.

Amid the flurry of activities surrounding the celebration of the Yule Fest and her responsibilities as Erebor’s Queen, the armory had called to her, and she’d been unable to resist the grounding, calming effects of a rigorous training session with her neglected blade. The price she paid for her indulgence was a rushed bath in preparation for another long evening of feasting and dancing and storytelling, and she smoothed her hair with rosewater-scented hands and hurried to her dressing room to slip on the gown her lady’s-maid had laid out. She was just tying the laces of her bodice in a neat bow when she breezed into the sitting room, prepared to leave, but the scene that met her eyes brought her to an abrupt halt.

Thorin reclined on a stack of cushions beside a crackling fire, with an assortment of dishes and carafes arranged on the tea table pulled up to the hearth. He wore his lightweight sleeping trousers, and a sliver of his bare chest was visible beneath his dressing gown of rich, soft velvet.

Her brows knitted in confusion. “Are you not ready for the party?”

“I thought perhaps we might enjoy a private celebration instead,” he ventured. “After so much time spent in company, I find myself longing for a night to ourselves.”

Nothing in the world was more enticing at the moment than the prospect of a quiet evening alone with her husband, and a relieved sigh escaped her lips. “Do you mean it?”

His smile was warm, and he patted the tufted damask pillow by his side. “Come, amrâlimê.”

Eagerly she joined him, settling herself on the cushions and laying her head on his shoulder as he enveloped her in his strong arms, her hand sliding inside his robe to splay itself on the warm skin of his chest. His fingers went to her hair, carefully removing the pins that constrained it, unraveling her golden braids with slow, raking motions, gently massaging her scalp. She raised her head to press a kiss to his lips, and her eyes strayed to the small feast laid out for two.

“Did you do this?” she asked, surveying the plates of cheese, bread, cakes, cold meats, and a variety of wines.

“Aye…though there was no cooking to speak of,“ he answered, at which they both chuckled, remembering his particularly smoky effort to surprise her with breakfast in bed shortly after their wedding.

“It’s wonderful,” she assured him, and moved to look more closely at the most delectable of sweets she spied among a display of seed cakes and dried figs. “Are those strawberries in chocolate? Where on earth did you get strawberries in the middle of winter?”

“Greenhouses,” he explained proudly. “Bilbo gave Oin the idea, for growing medicinal herbs, and they’ve moved on to fruits and vegetables now. Apparently the Shire folk set great store by them.”

Thorin picked up one of the plump berries and held it to her lips, and she took a bite, giving a hum of approval as the chocolate melted and mixed with the berry’s sweet juice on her tongue.

“I can see why,” she nodded, and let him place the rest of the strawberry in her mouth, giving a teasing flick of her tongue over his juice-stained thumb that earned an appreciative smirk.

She watched curiously as he drew a sprig of unfamiliar greenery from the pocket of his robe and twirled it between his fingers. “Here is something else by which Shire folk set great store,” he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “It is called mistletoe.”

“Is it for seasoning?” she wondered, and he quickly shook his head.

“No, you wouldn’t want to eat it…but there is a tradition that two people who should find themselves beneath a branch of mistletoe must share in a kiss,” he grinned slyly, raising the mistletoe above their heads. “And, as you see, we are beneath it…”

A matching grin crept over her face, and she leaned to close the distance between them. His soft beard tickled her skin as their lips met, leisurely in their caresses, parting, nibbling, tasting. She rested her forehead against his with a sigh, stroking soft handfuls of his hair, and his voice was a fond murmur.

“I have a gift for you.”

She chuckled, thinking of the treasures that had already made their way into her hands over the course of the Yule festivities…the book of poems, the golden bracelet set with green gemstones, the gloves lined with the softest of furs, the vambraces of tooled leather. “Thorin, you don’t have to keep giving me gifts.”

“I like to give you gifts,” he answered, kissing the tip of her nose. “I like to make you happy. I like the way you thank me,” he added, with a devilish grin, and she laughed.

He took a wooden box from the armchair beside him and handed it to her, and with an intrigued smile, she removed its lid. Inside, laid on a bed of black velvet, was an ornately crafted dagger, its blade engraved with a delicate leaved vine and its handle set with jewels of all colors, and she gasped as she carefully lifted it from its place and turned it over to examine its fine details.

“Oh, Thorin, it’s beautiful…it’s too much, truly.”

“Nothing is too much for my beloved,” he promised, watching her enjoyment with a pleased smile.

She nestled the dagger in its box again and crawled to his lap, sitting astride his sturdy thighs to take his face in her hands with a tender touch. “You are too good to me,” she said earnestly.

A smile played about his mouth, and he reached to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I could spend a lifetime endeavoring to deserve you.“

She shook her head, dismissing the thought, and pressed her lips fervently to his, as though to prove his worthiness by her loving ministrations.

His hands clasped her hips before gliding up her sides to bury themselves in her hair, his lips moving with hers ever more insistently while she loosened his robe, exposing his skin to her caresses, drawing a low rumble from his throat as her fingers trailed through the dark hair that dusted his torso.

“Thorin,” she breathed against his lips, “why don’t we adjourn to the bedroom?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward, and he glanced toward the plates of food on the table. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“For you.”

He chuckled, and allowed her to stand and extend her hands to pull him to his feet, and she led him to the door of the bedroom, where her laughter bubbled forth upon seeing that the canopy of the bed they shared had been thoroughly bedecked with garlands of mistletoe.

“Thorin Oakenshield, what am I going to do with you?”

He raised his eyebrows playfully. “I have a few ideas.”


End file.
